


To a Past, To a Future

by NETHERW4RT



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :’), Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Making Up, Swearing, i just really want them to be okay, lol, this is so self-indulgent lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29399673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/pseuds/NETHERW4RT
Summary: “You’ve grown up so strong,” a voice echoes behind him. Kind. Gentle. Longing. “My little champion.”
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 11
Kudos: 59





	To a Past, To a Future

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeybeb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybeb/gifts).



> ive been brainrotting for like the past 5 hours and speenran this fic sorry if it’s ass LMAO
> 
> enjoy :)

Fingers carefully comb through the soft ginger fluff of Fundy’s hair and his ears twitch to the side—a reflex, an instinct. He tenses for a moment, then relaxes and lets out a held breath; he knows who this is, knows that he’s okay, that _everything’s_ okay. 

“You’ve grown up so strong,” a voice echoes behind him. Kind. Gentle. Longing. “My little champion.”

Fundy winces, though involuntarily. The hands pause for a moment as if to allow him the silent recomposure. His chest tightens, achingly, painfully, as the familiar thread of brush bristles pulls through curly locks. Every so often they tickle at the base of his ears and cause them to flick forward, then back again.

“It’s been a long time,” he finally says, scratchy and raw as his voice is. It’s far too vulnerable. He swallows around nothing, around the invisible ball of emotions building in his throat.

“It has, hasn’t it?” The hands stop again, this time lightly tracing swirls of hair collecting at the base of Fundy’s neck; he shivers and squeezes his eyes shut at the nostalgic sensation. “I’m,” Wilbur, _his father_ , hesitates as if he has something else to say, but finishes, “so proud of you, Fundy,” instead.

Fundy takes a breath. The pressure builds in the core of his gut and burns a trail up from his stomach all the way to the tip of his tongue. “Wil,” he whispers, furiously, brokenly, with every drop of bitter, far-away anger and desperation he can muster, “ _stop_.”

He doesn’t mean it.

Wilbur stops, pulls his hands away, and goes silent. Fundy is still dormant on the stool, mourning for something he’s made up for himself. Something Wilbur made for him so long ago.

“I’m sorry,” his father murmurs tentatively. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Fundy, I—”

“I know.” Fundy inhales again, shoulders rising as he holds his breath. It’s gone again within a second, shrinking and curling inside him. “I know,” he repeats, “I know you are, Wil. I just...I’m not used to it, not used to this. To _you_.”

The brush clatters softly against the counter before Fundy is being guided to face Wilbur, eyes glossy and fragile as he stares into the face of his father, faint in the back of his mind, a mere memory he’s been pushing down, away, since he was little. “It’s okay,” Wilbur says, and Fundy breaks. He shatters, sobbing, trembling in every inch of skin and bones he has. “Oh, Fundy, my little champion.” He’s pulled flush to Wilbur’s chest, crashing into the fabric of his shirt and the familiar scent; it smells like _home_. A home forgotten. A home left behind. A home he misses with every fucking beat of his heart.

“I’m sorry,” Fundy cries, shaking fervently in his father’s arms, “I’m so fucking sorry, Wil, I—I missed you. I missed you, _Dad_. I fucking missed you.” He rushes, words flying from his mouth as if confessing damned sins to the face of a pastor, or perhaps even god himself. Wilbur’s hands press into his back, rubbing soothing gestures into his spine until the hiccups fade and his breathing evens out. The red under his eyes is painfully stark against his pale skin.

“Oh, Fundy,” Wilbur says, laced with guilt, anguish, and every layer of sadness he could possibly register. “My little Fundy. It’s not your fault.”

“It _is_ ,” Fundy protests, but Wilbur silences him with a tender movement of his hand; he lightly sweeps aside messy bangs clinging to Fundy’s forehead, which is newly slick with beads of sweat.

“It’s _not_ ,” he assures, hushed yet firm. “Fundy, I...wish I could fix it. I know I can’t—that I can’t take back every shitty thing I’ve done to you, every time I wasn’t there when you needed me. I know I can’t.” He smiles, sorrowful, and takes Fundy’s hands in his own, cupped tightly around them. It’s warm. It’s _home_. “I only have the future,” he continues. “I can only decide to change for myself, for _you_. I want to, Fundy. I want to be a better father.”

Barbed wires spike the back of his throat until Fundy feels he can taste blood—blood that isn’t there, blood that he imagines. “I’d like that,” he rasps, worn from crying. “I want that, Wil. I want...I want you to be here for me. Is that okay? To—to want that?”

“It’s more than okay,” Wilbur urges, faint and cottony in his tone. He presses a tender kiss to the top of Fundy’s head. “I want to be there for you. If you’ll have me, of course.”

Fundy laughs, cracking and bittersweet. “I’ll have you,” he says slowly, “of fucking course I’ll have you, _Dad_. I—that’s all I ever wanted. I wanted you to be there.”

“I’m here now.”

“I know.” 

“For as long as you need. As long as I can be,” Wilbur adds.

Fundy nods, silent, and squeezes his palms around Wilbur’s own. “Promise?”

“Promise,” his father confirms, returning the squeeze. His smile softens, less worried, less distressed. He looks happier. It makes Fundy _feel_ happier.

The unearthly grip around his throat, around his stomach and chest, loosens. His heart beats steady behind his ribs. The air tastes lighter, the world seems quieter. It’s calm. It’s _relieving_.

“I love you,” Fundy manages after a moment of stillness between them. It passes like an eternity—like the smallest of seconds packed together in a lifetime; it’s everything and nothing. “I didn’t—I never meant it, when I said I hated you. I couldn’t— _how could I hate you_?” His voice pitches, awfully, and he freezes again when Wilbur rocks him gently in his embrace, a comfort long forgotten. It’s welcome, here and now. “I was angry. I was emotional. I’m—I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Wil.”

“It’s okay, Fundy. I know. I know, okay? You’re okay. I love you too, my little champion. I always have—I always _will_.” Another kiss finds its way to Fundy’s forehead this time around. “You’re my son.”

Fundy says nothing; what could he possibly say? He could wrack through the entire world, the galaxy and all its stars, and find nothing to say in that moment—nothing that could ever describe the hurt, the guilt, the fucking _yearning_ that he feels. For a home to return to. A father to hug tight and never let go. Not again.

 _Not ever again_.


End file.
